Stages of Love
by Cyranothe2nd
Summary: Occurs immediately after Hannibal, Lecter challenges Clarice FINISHED!
1. Loss

Chapter One: Loss   
  


"Show us your hands." 

Clarice Starling obediently held her arms up, but her eyes never left the dinghy, bobbing up and down on the silent waters of the Chesapeake, slowly turning. 

"I'm Clarice Starling." She shouted above the sounds of the cars and helicopters. She heard men behind her, moving forward. Just one second more...the small boat turned to reveal nothing. No hidden occupant, not that she'd really thought there would be. It was too obvious. Still, she had taken the bait. 

"_Blame it on the morphine_." She thought. 

The police reached her a moment later and wasted no time putting her into a car. She wasn't cuffed, a perk of her former Special Agent status. And strangely, no one asked her questions. Catching sight of her reflection in the glass of the police car door she realized why. She looked disheveled and drugged and in shock, which was all basically the truth, which explained why the police were treating her with kid gloves. However, she had no doubt the gloves would come off once she got to the station. 

She used the intermittable drive to decide what to tell them. Eight years ago it would have never entered her mind to edit the truth-"_Lie._" She thought, "_Call it what it is_."-but now... 

She knew her career with the FBI was over. She would be lucky to escape prosecution. She would not, could not, give them the intimate details of her relationship with Hannibal Lecter. 

"Relationship?" she thought, started. What precisely _was_ the nature of their "relationship"? 

"Don't go there Starling." She warned herself, as she had done innumerable times when her thoughts strayed to closely to the Doctor. She ordered her thoughts, glad that she had thought to clean up a little before the police arrived. There were some difficulties but nothing that she couldn't explain. She replayed it all over again, like a video in her mind, forcing herself to see it as they would and formulate her responses accordingly. The station house came too soon. 

Pearcell was there, along with two other agents, both pencil-necked desk jockeys who glared at her with sanctimonious expressions that only got more annoying as she was forced to tell her story again and again. 

"So, Lecter went into the kitchen and you followed?" One of the pencil-necks, Agent Tarrow, was asking. 

"Yes, he wheeled Agent Krendler into the kitchen and I followed him with a candlestick." 

"And then what happened?" 

"I told you that already." She said in exasperation. Pearcell shot her a look, which she ignored. 

"I tried to hit him with the candlestick but he pinned me against the fridge by my hair." 

"And then you cuffed him?" 

"Yes, in the struggle I was able to cuff him." 

Tarrow looked at her through narrowed eyes. "He just let you cuff him?" 

No, he did not _let_ me!" She near shouted, suddenly deathly tired. The morphine was starting to wear off and her shoulder hurt like hell. One of the cops had leant her his jacket but she was still freezing. Still she was thankful for the chance to cover the dress, it was too revealing in more ways than one. That Lecter had given it to her, had put her into it, hinted at an intimacy Pearcell and his desk monkeys would drool over. So, she pulled the coat tightly around her, letting them believe she had worn a tasteful black skirt and impossibly high heels to Mason Verger's barn. 

Pearcell was not entirely buying it. 

"Look Starling, there's no need to get upset. Agent Tarrow is only doing his job." 

She sighed, knowing what was coming next. 

"And it _does_ seem pretty improbable that Lecter left you alive after you threatened him like that." 

She brought her eyes up, glaring into Pearcell's insipid face. 

"Frankly, I don't care whether you think it's probable or not. I cuffed him, he had the key, he unlocked himself and took off. I followed him but it was too late." 

Not entirely true. 

She had had the key and had given it to him after he nearly dismembered himself rather than hurt her, but that wasn't a story she was willing to tell Pearcell. She could scarcely believe it all herself. And she was already in enough trouble. 

"He already had the key?" 

"Yeah." She sighed, speaking as if to a small child. "I told you, he had set to cuffs out on the table by the phone to see if I would use them. The key was gone and I knew he had it but I knew I could buy time using them anyway. " 

"What about your sidearm?" Tarrow asked suddenly. 

"My sidearm?" 

"Your gun. The one you took to Muskrat Farm. Wasn't it sitting on the table with the cuffs?" 

"Yes." 

"But you didn't take it into the dining room with you." 

"No." 

"May I ask why not?" 

She was already ready for that one. Still, she was angry at the tone of the question. 

"Ask away." She said flippantly. 

"Agent Starling-" Pearcell started and she cut him off before he could get any further. 

"Look, I've told you everything alright? I've cooperated completely and I resent the implication of Agent Tarrow's question." She said the words "Agent Tarrow" with the same sarcasm Lecter used when speaking of the FBI. "I was drugged, alright? I could barely see straight and I could hear Paul Krendler downstairs and I wasn't sure of the situation or whether I could shoot without harming him or someone else. So, why didn't I take the gun? Because I couldn't trust myself with it. And the first rule they teach you is when you pull the trigger be very very sure." 

She had stood up during her tirade and she abruptly sat back down, dizzy and shaking. 

"Can I get some water?" 

Pearcell motioned to the second agent, the one who had not spoken yet, and he got up to get her a glass. Pearcell drifted over to her side of the table and stared down at her. She tried to look him in the eye but could not focus on his face. 

"Has she seen a doctor?" He asked Tarrow, his voice sounding concerned. 

"_Now isn't that sweet, he's concerned for little ol' me_." Clarice thought snidely as Tarrow shook his head no. 

The taciturn agent came back and pressed the glass of water into her hand. She raised it unsteadily, draining the whole glass. 

"_Yep_-" She thought, "_Morphine is definitely wearing off_." 

"Starling?" She glanced up into Pearcell's face. "Look, I think we're done her for today. Agent Haines here-" He gestured to the water boy, "-is gonna take you to the hospital, OK? And I want you in my office tomorrow." 

"What, so you can fire me in person?" She wanted to say but instead murmured, "Yes sir."   
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Grieving

Chapter Two: Grieving   
  


Later, after the aphonic Agent Haines took her home she reflected on what would really happen tomorrow. It didn't look like they would try to prosecute her, although they had ample reason for doing so. Of course, prosecuting her would also reveal the extent of Krendler's involvement with Mason Verger, an embarrassment Pearcell surely wanted to avoid. She wondered if Pearcell was on Verger's payroll as well. Even after his death, he was sure to have enough friends in high places to silence any hints of scandal. No, the FBI would not take the chance. They would save face by firing her instead. 

Clarice sighed, pulling off the black police issue jacket, followed by the low-cut gown underneath. She debated for a moment on what to do with the dress, and then decided that it was a lost cause and shoved it into a bag, followed by the shoes. Stripped now Clarice padded into the bathroom and turned on the tap. As she waited for the water to warm up she stared into the mirror. Goddamn, she looked like hell. A wry smile crossed her face. She felt like it too. 

Her eyes fell to the neat row of stitches on her shoulder. The doctor at the hospital had complimented her on her field first aid. 

"I couldn't have done a neater job myself." He beamed at her, obviously thinking she had done it herself. She didn't have the energy to correct him. 

She fingered the black threads now, wondering if it would leave a scar. Of course it would. The whole evening would. 

Turning away from the mirror, Clarice stepped into the hot shower, letting the water carry away the ugliness of the day. She closed her eyes, trying to forget the sight of Hannibal Lecter cutting into Krendler's brain with ruthless precision. He had assured her that Paul felt no pain, knowing that it didn't really matter to her, it wasn't the reason she tried to bargain with him. Why had he done it? Oh, she knew that he hated Krendler for the way he'd treated her but...to do it there, in front of her. He'd intended her to watch him do it. Why? To what purpose? 

Was it a payoff on his previous invitation to help her? Was it to make them "scream apologies"? Or was it more basic? Had he set himself before her in all his murderous glory so that she could hold no illusions as to what he was? Had it been his attempt at stripping away a romantical veneer of civilization and showing her the monster within? 

"My dear doctor, I already knew that." She said softly to herself.   
  


Or maybe she was completely wrong and he had done it only to play with her. Still, she could not forget his words, sincerely spoken. 

"_All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror."_   
__   


She turned off the water, emerging wet and shaking from the misty depths. She rubber her skin ruthlessly with a towel, and ordered his voice just as ruthlessly to silence. She toweled her hair and left it tangled down her back. Pulling on an old pair of sweats she went to the kitchen for some water. Coming back, she notices that her answering machine was blinking. She had a message. She leaned on the edge of her overstuffed chair and pressed "Play". 

His metallic voice came out of the machine. 

"Well hallo Clarice. I must say I enjoyed out last encounter, painful as it was. What now little Starling? Provided you will not be prosecuted for losing me, what then? Will you follow me, Clarice? Will you act without the auspicious support of the FBI?" 

He over enunciated the initials sardonically before his voice dropped to a midnight tone. 

"We could have some fun." She shivered, recognizing the invitation form the time they had spoken at Union Station. There was a moment's silence, punctuated by background noise before his voice continued. 

"Well, I have to go, ex-Special Agent Starling. Catch me if you can. Ta." 

She listened to the message three more times before erasing the tape. He was challenging her, she knew. But to what end? And where to start? 

The message itself revealed the answer. At top volume the background noise resolved itself into a voice. 

"Last call, Flight 229, departing for Florence at gate 17." 

He would not be in Florence, of course, but he would not have allowed her to hear the loudspeaker unless he wanted her to go there. With anyone else it may have been random chance but with Hannibal Lecter it was an invitation. 

"Ok Doctor." She said. "Ok."   
  


The next day she submitted her resignation to Pearcell. 

"Is this what you want Starling?" 

She gazing at him unbelieving. "Do I have any choice?" 

He looked away. "No, not really, but I appreciate you not making any trouble about it. It will make things easier for you." 

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, knowing that the FBI would sweep it under the rug as quickly as possible. 

"You know Starling, you had real promise. You could have come a long way here." 

"No, I couldn't. I could never have gone anywhere here." She said and for the first time really saw the truth in it. Lecter had been right. They hated her. They didn't care about the sheep, they only cared about washing the other hand, and playing politics and advancement. She was glad it was over, actually had the urge to laugh at Pearcell as he held out a hand to her. Instead she took it, letting him be the good guy. 

Later that day she cleaned out her savings and booked a flight to Tampa. 


	3. Denial

Chapter Three: Denial   
  


She was being followed. 

She knew that Pearcell at least suspected that she might try to go after Lecter again. She had made great pains to make this look like a personal trip, telling Ardelia that she was going away to her family in Montana. She had made certain to travel light and leave her credit cards, which were certain identifiers, behind. 

She changed planes in Tampa, and again in Seattle, yet again and under another name in Cincinnati. By the time she was back in Washington she had lost them. In the afternoon of the next day she was in Florence. 

She took a hotel near the Capponi library. Wiped out from the trip, all she saw of Florence that first day was the shower and the bed. 

The next day, she went to his house. The flat had been closed by the Florentine police. She posed in the guise of an American author, writing a book about famous serial killers. Money exchanged hands and the landlord showed her up. 

"Una hora, signora." He said, and turned to go. 

"Wait." He turned back. "Is this how the house was before?" 

He answered in broken English and from what she was able to understand, the police had ripped the place up and the landlord himself had put it all back together. 

"For the other curator, when he comes." He said. 

She smiled, nodded, and he was gone, closing the door behind him. She was alone in Hannibal Lecter's apartment. 

She walked through the foyer to the library beyond, not knowing what she was hoping to find here. The police had stripped the place of anything that might be of value in finding him. She remembered how pissed off Pearcell had been that the Italian police had trampled all over the scene before he could send a team up. They weren't exactly forthcoming with what they found either. They saw the death of Police Chief Pazzi as a personal vendetta. Not that there was much they could do about it. 

There was a piano in the library and she could imagine his sitting at it, long fingers supplely stroking the keys. She wondered if he could play the piano, had no doubt he could. It seemed that there was little he could not do. She walked slowly through the room to the door on the other side. It was a modest bathroom. Most of the personal articles were gone but there was a bottle of something next to the sink. Curious, she uncorked it and the evocative scent of lavender and fleece filled the air. It was the hand cream he'd had made for her. She dipped a little out, rubbing it onto her hands and capped the bottle again. She sat it back on the counter top, thought better of it, and put it into her purse instead. 

The only other room was the bedroom. She paused on the threshold, feeling like an intruder. Taking a deep breath she straightened her shoulders and entered the room. 

The closet was empty, as were most of the dresser drawers. 

"Must have been someone in the Florence police about his size." She said aloud, knowing Lecter could not have brought his whole wardrobe along with him to Washington. 

She turned her attention to his bedside table. It, like everything else in the house, was made of richly carved and gleaming wood. There was a cut-glass lamp on it and a book. She picked it up. It was Marcus Aurelius' Meditations in the original Latin. It was a handsome leather-bound edition and she was vaguely surprised that it was still here. She remembered when they had spoken in Memphis and she had been desperate to catch Buffalo Bill he had told her, 

_"Read Marcus Aurelius, Of each particular thing ask, what is it, in itself? What is it's nature?"_

"You forgot the rest of that, Doctor." She answered aloud. "That nothing in nature should be feared because there is nothing in nature truly evil." 

She had begun to think of him like that, a force of nature, inexorable and unchanging as the sea. Even strapped to a gurney behind plexiglass he was dangerous. Violence clung to him, as it did to a wild animal, even after it was captured. 

_"Given the chance you would deny me my life."_

No, Doctor." She answered the question again. "Not your life. I never wanted to hurt you." The emptiness of his room felt hollow, belying her words. 

_"No, just my freedom_." As thought that would not kill him. He had been willing to dismember himself rather than go back. She had no doubt that he would never allow himself to be taken alive again. 

Her eyes fell to the bed, done up in black and navy silk. She trailed a hand across the smooth divan, trying to imagine him sleeping here. She leaned closer, catching the alien scent of him on the pillows. She buried her face in them, remembering him standing so close to her that she had been completely enveloped in that scent. 

"_Tell me Clarice, would you ever say to me, stop? If you loved me, you'd stop?"_

"_Not in a thousand years_." She answered immediately, sickened by the manipulation implicit in such a demand. She could never used his love for her in a game of politics or control. Such behavior was anathema to her. 

He pursed his lips, repeating her words softly. 

_"Not in a thousand years."_

Suddenly, he lunged at her, mouth open, teeth exposed. She watched, beyond fear. He stopped mere centimeters from her face, gazing into her eyes, pleased and satisfied by her lack of fear. She could feel his breath warm on her face as he whispered, 

"_That's my girl_." And his mouth came down on hers. 

"Signora?" 

Clarice started up guiltily from the bed. 

"Coming." She called, giving the room one last look. She was missing something, some essential clue but she couldn't figure it out. Her eyes fell on the book again and, on impulse, she stuffed it into her purse before walking out of the room. 

The landlord had called her a cab and she directed the driver to take her to the Duomo. 

_"Memory, Agent Starling, is what I have instead of a view."_

To her surprise they stopped after only few blocks. 

"Duomo." The cabbie gestured at the magnificent building and Starling nodded, paying him. She went inside, climbing the stairs to the tower. Surprisingly, she could see the Capponi library and Lecter's apartment from here. It actually faced towards her, he could have probably looked out his windows and seen the ancient church. Of course. 

She spent the afternoon there, taking in the view, the paintings and frescoes, listening to the droning voices of tour guides in both English and Italian. Finally evening rolled around and with regret she left the crenellated arches and walking back to her hotel in the rosy twilight, soaking Florence into her soul. She was surprised that, until this day, she had never noticed how bereft of beauty her life had become. The city opened her senses, made her wish for more than a cubicle and a case. She could understand now how Lecter could spend ten quiet years here and sent out a silent thank you to him for sharing it with her. 

She grabbed dinner in the hotel's resturante- though she wasn't sure if you could call a four course meal "grabbed"-before returning to her room. She opened the windows, enjoying the coolness of the night air against her bare arms. She took the hand cream out and spread it on her hands again, enjoying the light scent. She was glad Lecter had chosen something subtle instead of the usual overpowering florals. She detested anything smelling of roses or freesia. But of course, he somehow knew that, just as he knew so much about her. 

"_Well, if you know so much, what am I doing here?_" She asked him in her mind but he was not forthcoming on that score. 

She put the hand cream away and pulled out the book. She could not read Latin of course, but she could still admire the workmanship and detail of the book. There were no illustrations but the first letter on every page was bigger than the rest and colored to form an animal or a flower or something else. It was really beautiful. She flipped through the book, noticing that some of the corners were turned down. She frowned. It was not like Lecter to disrespect his books. 

Fascinated, Clarice grabbed a piece of paper and began noting the first letter on every dog-eared page. Soon she had what looked like words. She struggled to unscramble them. A few minutes later she sat back, mystery solved. 

It said, Urbs aeterna, the eternal city. 

Rome. 


	4. Entrapment

Chapter Four: Entrapment 

_That night she laid in bed and remembered..._

She was in the kitchen, trapped by her hair and Lecter was asking her the question, 

"Would you ever say to me, stop?' 

And her voice answered back, full of pride. And then his mouth descended on hers and he was kissing her, all softness and hunger. She longed to surrender to his voice, his eyes, his lips but the voice of duty was stronger and she reached behind her and closed the cuffs on him with a snick as final as doom. 

He opened twilight eyes, stepping back slowly, holding up their joined wrists. 

"Now this is really interesting." He admitted. "But I'm really pressed for time, so where's the key?" 

She raised her chin defiantly. 

"Where's the key?" He asked again, his voice losing it's playful edge. She stood stubbornly silent. She could hear the sounds of far off police sirens. 

"Ok." Lecter said. In one smooth motion he had reached behind him with his right hand for a meat cleaver, pinning her hand with his left. 

"What do you think Clarice, above or below the wrist?" He gestured with the knife. She looked up into his eyes and knew he wasn't joking. He was fully capable, willing even. She stared at him, afraid but knowing she couldn't give in. She would rather lose a hand than lose his respect. 

Lecter shrugged and raise the cleaver. 

"You know, this is really going to hurt." And she saw, the split second before he brought the knife down, what he intended to do and she reacted on instinct, pulling their joined hands towards her, overbalancing him even as she screamed in terror. 

The cleaver met the counter and she looked down quickly at their hands. He was bleeding, the knife had not completely missed him. She took his hand in hers, assuring herself that it was a flesh wound before turning on him. 

"Are you crazy?" She demanded, scared and strangely moved. 

"Some would say that it's a matter open to debate." He answered mildly. 

She sighed, wondering how he could come up with strange quips like that even in the most stressful moments. She reached up into her hair where, Emelda Drumgo style, she had hidden the key. She unlocked the cuffs with the ease of long practice . He watched the movement of her hands intently as she freed him. His gaze traveled slowly up to her face, his expression inscrutable. 

The sirens were closer now. 

"My Clarice." He crooned, cupping her cheek with his uninjured hand. His eyes devoured her face, as though seeing her for the last time. He smiled, the expression lightening his eyes. 

"Bye." He said, voice full of helloes. And then he was gone. 

Something awoke inside her and she dropped the key, moving around the kitchen quickly, tidying up, getting rid of some things, fixing some others. When sufficient time had passed she went outside, spotted the little boat bobbing along the coastline, letting her attention focus on that and not all the other ways he could have escaped. 

"Police, show us your hands!" 

She held her hands up, a small smile at the corners of her mouth. He was gone. 


	5. Bargaining

Chapter Five: Bargaining 

The next day she took a bus for Rome. She had shed another layer of identity in Florence, and now she had a fake passport that identified her as Clarissa Kestrel, a member of the American press. She had also purchased a gun. She knew she wouldn't use it against Lecter unless her life depended on it but she felt safer for having it's comfortable weight strapped securely under her jacket. Her hand strayed to it from time to time, like a touchstone. 

She refused to examine too closely what she was doing. So far he had been the cat in their game, leading her. Would he allow her to get close? Could she somehow turn the tables, capture him? Or was this game something else entirely? 

She had been replaying the events of the past over and over again in her head, from the first moment in the dungeon, to the time he touched her in Memphis, his promise not to come after her, the letter, the phone call, and finally the night she had saved him from Muskrat Farm. That night more than anything convinced her that it was not his intention to harm her, that his intentions were far different. It all coalesced in her mind. He wanted her. She would not use the word love., didn't know if he was capable of love as she understood it. Even the seeming self sacrifice of his hand had a double edge. He had meant to show her that he could not be put into that "bad guy" category in her head. He wanted her to _see_ him; horror and humanity together. And that created a moral ambiguity where he was concerned, a hollow place in her identifying faculties that, combined with her expulsion from the Bureau, had led her here. 

She had no frame of reference for Rome. She could not recall him ever mentioning it before and she was at a loss as to what to look for. The first day she spent scouting out the city, taking in the famous sites, eating the food and listening to the rush of musical Italian around her. She wished that things were different, that she could live here... 

"_And what Clarice? Live happy ever after with the serial killer?_" She shut down that line of thought . 

"Ok, Ok, where to start?" She sat in a cafe sipping coffee and thinking. She would start canvassing hotels, asking questions, doing foot work. Maybe she would shake something loose. 

She spent a whole fruitless week trying to find something, anything, only to come back to her hotel, footsore and discouraged. On the eighth day, as she came down the stairs into the lobby, one of the desk clerks was yelling at a luggage boy. She could not understand most of it, but he kept gesturing to a box. She made to move past when she heard her name mentioned. She turned back, but the luggage boy had beat a hasty retreat and the desk clerk was angrily picking up the box and stashing it behind the desk. 

He noticed her watching and put a fake smile on his face, "Yes, Signora. Can I help you?" 

She took the opportunity to move closer, saw the copperplate writing on the address portion of the box. 

"Yes, I think that's mine." He handed the box to her without argument and she took it upstairs to her room. 

The packaging was nondescript, bearing no postmark or any other identifiers, just her name in his neat script. She took out her pocket knife and cut the box open. Inside was a gold-gilded birdcage. She furrowed her forehead, searching the packaging for anything else. That was is, just the cage. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. It was not a real birdcage, but a decoratory piece made to look like one. The bars were all gold and the middle braces had traceries of lighter gold traveling all the way up to the hanging ring on top. The inside was lined with red velvet and she noticed that the velvet had been pulled up a bit on one corner. She tugged on it and it came loose. 

Underneath there was a ticket for a performance of Aida at the Paris Opera House. It was dated exactly two weeks away. 

An invitation then. And a warning too, for the birdcage was a clear notice that he was not the only one being hunted. 

She grinned. 

_"Only my freedom, just that."_

"Alright, Doctor Lecter. I'll play." 


	6. Anger

Chapter Six: Anger 

She spent two weeks in Rome, soaking it in as she had done Florence. She did not know how she could ever go back to America, back to her life, after seeing this place. Not that she could anyway.. She had left the country while she was under investigation. An sham investigation, but somehow she didn't think Pearcell would think of it that way. No, any way she looked at it, she was in deep shit if she ever returned to the US. 

She set the birdcage on her bedside table and, at night, would look at it. She wanted nothing more than to fly away from this life, to find Lecter and to fly… 

_Whoa, girl! What the hell was that you just thought?_ Her mind's voice brought her up short. She pushed it away. Why not? Why couldn't she leave one life behind, exchange it for another? But at what cost? 

There was the quandary. It was clear that he wanted her, but whether to possess her or to free her was uncertain. One thing was sure though. She has to take the game back from him. Up to this point the had led her around, stalking her like a cat stalks a mouse, leaving a breadcrumb trail of clue for her to follow. She had doggedly pursued him, across a continent, across all her internal boundaries, across all the reasons why she shouldn't do it. Now it was _her_ turn to come halfway across the world to watch him run… 

Still she knew that if she let him control her actions she would always be a pupil to him. She could not bear that, could not have him so close and not believe her to be an equal. Almost anything was better than being patronized. 

She considered her options as she took a trail to Paris. By the time she checked into her hotel she had a pretty good idea of what she should do. Now, she just had to have the right outfit. 

Shopping in Paris is like drinking fine wine after swilling cheap vodka your whole life. There was literally nothing you could not buy there , and do it with style. The very first shop she entered displayed a myriad of possibilities and she spent the afternoon trying on dresses, letting the girlish part of her, the part that wanted to look pretty and be the center of attention, out for a while. 

There were two dresses she strongly considered and she finally went with a deep emerald green dress that covered her one sutured shoulder but plunged wickedly, leaving the other bare. It dropped in shimmering graceful folds to the floor, adorned only by a single line of satin trim around the bust. Tasteful, flirtatious, elegant…she imagined Doctor Lecter being pleased and wondered if he too imagined scenarios and exchanges.   
  


She was soon to find out. 

Upon arriving at her hotel, on the banks of the Seine, she received a note. 

_Clarice~_

_Good choice on the dress. But where are you going to hide the cuffs this time, hmmm?_

_~H_   
  


She grinned. He knew her too well. In fact, along with the dress, she had purchased a matching bag, just large enough to hold a gun. She loaded it now, placing it into the purse before going into the bathroom for a quick shower. The Opera would start in two hours and she wanted to be early. 

She spent the first half of the opera scanning the crowd at the Palias Garnier from her box seat, looking for him. Perhaps she was wrong, perhaps he did not plan to attend. But somehow she doubted that. She sighed, fingering the libretto that she had been given by one off the box master's. She cracked it open, reading the synopsis. 

_Hmmm Doctor, did you mean for this to be a message? The slave girl that loves her enemy and, torn between desire and duty, chooses to flee with him, only to end up dying with him instead? Am I Aida are Ramades?_

She watched the opera below, rapt by the self destruction playing itself out before her. Voice soared and swooped over each other and she felt tears come to her eyes as she realized that, like Aida, she had already betrayed herself. She was here now, willing to fly with him. But how would it end? Would he send her back to her life, as Ramades tried to do? Would they be caught and condemned to live forever apart? Would she defy all she knew to go to him at the last moment, willing to die with him rather than live without him. 

Yes.   
  


A tear spilled down her cheek and she knew she was lost. 

A whisper of movement to her right brought her eyes up and there he was, in the darkness of Box Five, almost directly opposite her own. She held his gaze for a moment, wondering if he could read her realization on her face, not caring that he did. In a few hours it would all be over and the lambs would finally stop screaming. 

Clarice stood up, leaving her box and walking down the winding marble staircase to the mirrored grand foyer. Someone opened the door for her and she went outside, walking around the squat, ungraceful building. The wind had turned sharp and she clutched her purse close, wishing she had thought to bring a coat. She shivered in the shadows for a few minutes before she heard a step behind her. 

He had done it deliberately, of course. She knew she would not have heard him unless he wanted to. 

She turned slowly. 

"Hello Clarice." He said. She slowly raked her gaze over him, taking in the black suit, the fedora the covered his longer-than-usual hair, his hand, almost healed, and finally his midnight eyes. She did not look into them, knowing that she could lose herself forever there and not willing to slip now that she was so close. 

"Hello Doctor Lecter." She replied, glad that her voice sounded even and self- assured. She felt far from it. 

He stepped closer and she felt a little overwhelmed at his nearness. 

_Focus. _She thought. 

She calmly reached into her bag and pulled out the gun. 

Lecter halted mid-step and lifted an eyebrow. 

"My dear Clarice, didn't anyone ever tell you that it is rude to point guns at people?" His tone was playful but there was very real menace behind it. 

_Already threatening each other_. Clarice reflected. _How quickly we fall into old patterns._

She allowed herself to look into his face for a moment. 

"You're right." She said finally. She reversed the gun, now holding it by the barrel. She held it out to him, and after an tentative moment he accepted the offering. She met his eyes then and spoke low, 

"I'm tired of playing Hannibal." 

It was the first time she had ever used his given name and she saw it had the desired effect, for the look on his face was complete surprise. Deliberately she turned her back on him and walked away into the night. 


	7. Acceptance

Chapter Seven: Acceptance

The wind off the Seine felt good on her face and Clarice opened all the windows in her hotel room before kicking off her shoes and going into the bathroom to let her hair down from it's loose chignon. She found herself humming, something that she had not done in a long time. She could not forget the look on his face right before she turned away. He had been floored. She finally managed to turn the tables on him.

She looked at her face, grinning back at her in the mirror. She was inordinately pleased with herself. 

Giving him the gun had been the perfect touch. It was symbolic of giving up her safety, her protection. She was letting him in. And she knew without a doubt that he would not hesitate to exercise that invitation.

She drew herself a bath, not hearing above the sounds of the water running the slight scrape of a lock pick, or the door opening slowly. Clarice sank into the tub, sighing as her skin touched the hot water. She leaned back and closed her eyes, humming again. 

And from the shadows, Hannibal Lecter watched her.

After a half hour she got out of the tub, toweled dry and applied the hand cream to her fresh skin. The scent of lavender reached Lecter's nostrils and he was pleased that she had used it. Still humming, Clarice slowly pulled a brush through her long hair and stepped into the silk pajamas she had bought on her shopping trip. They were deep green, like her dress, and whispered against her skin like a caress. They had been almost as expensive as the dress, but since she was spending her retirement anyway, why not have something nice to sleep in?

She switched off the bathroom light and padded out, barefoot, into her bedroom. There was enough light from the open window to see the outlines of the furniture and she made her way to the bed, stopped halfway and decided to go to the window instead. She sat down on the wide sill, pulling her legs up to her chest and staring out into the night. She sensed, more than heard , him behind her but she didn't turn. He was so close that she would touch him if she turned but she closed her eyes instead, immersing herself in his presence. She could smell him; smoky, alien, male. Her breath hitched as she drew that aroma into her throat. From behind her she heard a low growl and she was in his arms in a moment.

He kissed her fiercely, mouth possessive against her. Clarice felt her knees go weak and she kissed him back with equal ardor. His strong hand roved over her body, touching, commanding, unyielding. Clarice felt herself responding but something in her head hesitated. She gathered the unraveling threads of her resolve and broke from his kiss, stepping back. This was not right. His touch wasn't right. She looked up at him, trying to place her finger on it. She saw the passion in his eyes and behind it, a flicker of uncertainty. She realized with a start that he had never done this before. He had never had a relationship with a woman who knew who he was. And, astonishing of all, she sensed that he was afraid. They were gambling for higher stakes than freedom or lives. They gambled now with their very hearts and that was not something that Lecter did lightly.

She knew that what she did in the next moment would determine forever the nature of their relationship. Partnership or submission? 

She already knew the answer.

She was not the submissive type.

"Hannibal." She spoke softly. His eyes met hers and she let all the tenderness and love she felt reflect there. "No more games, remember? " 

She held a hand out to him. She saw him struggle with himself, straining to part from the self-possession and isolation he had so strictly imposed upon himself all his life. Still, she would accept nothing less that a complete surrendering of himself. And, after a long minute, he reached out and took her hand, drawing her forward.

"No more games." He whispered into her hair before his mouth came down on hers and obliterated all thought.


	8. Prologue

Prologue

He had not broken his words to her, not once in two years. It had been hard, especially in the beginning. He was unused to being with another person and found the interplay, while entertaining, sometimes bewildering . He was given to quicksilver changes in mood. He would be grave at light moments. He would annoy her and harass her and force her to see things she would rather not. He dragged all her hidden inconsistencies into the light and forced her to look at the world with new eyes. 

And she, in turn, served first as companion, and then as accomplice to him. She learned to adjust to his moods, to make him laugh, to make him abandon his control, to sense the tightly reined passion in him and bring it bubbling to the surface. 

And always, always, there was the feel of his hands on her body; stroking, tasting, feeling, awakening.

"Would you ever say to me, stop? If you' loved me, you'd stop?" He asked playfully and his hands moved masterfully over her, teasing.

"Hannibal!" She gasped, needed to fell him mouth on hers and him inside her. He flipped her over onto her back, twining his hands in her hair, tugging her head back to savage her throat with his lips. He entered her roughly, balancing her on a knife's edge between pleasure and pain before he reached between them and pressed his fingers to her nub and she went over the edge into ecstasy.

"Not in a thousand years!" She cried out, exultant.

He growled low in his throat, experiencing his own release. Collapsing across her he buried his face in her breasts and said,

"That's my girl." 


End file.
